The Shock of the Old
by Catherine Pugh
Summary: Sherlock and Molly discover they have more than just a hobby in common, and it leads to an interesting adventure.
1. An Interesting Proposal

"Molly, hand me that scalpel, please."

Molly walked clear over to the opposite side of the room, where Sherlock was peering through a microscope. The scalpel was situated on the end of the table. She rolled her eyes and thought fleetingly about handing it to him knife-side-forward, but decided against it at the last minute. Sherlock was surprisingly chatty this afternoon, and even though she was slightly cross with him, she didn't mind.

"Thank you," he said absently. "Oh. I'm sorry. It was right there. How rude of me."

Molly smiled, rolled her eyes when she turned from him, and went back to her work table. Her tea had gone cold long ago.

"Mind if I put on some music, Sherlock?" she asked timidly. The hum of the overhead fluorescents made days like this one feel long. No bodies today. She was glad of that, but that meant little to do for the afternoon.

"It's not my lab," he replied airily, not removing his eyes from the microscope. "Something melodic is fine."

"Right." She put her iPhone in the speakers and turned it to one of her favourite bands from her undergraduate days, Divine Comedy. Sherlock once told her he liked them because they didn't sound whiny like that Radio-whatever-band.

The pathologist on duty in the late nights was usually a bit fussy, so this was something to occupy the time. But she really wanted an afternoon off. Molly bustled about the room, tidying things up and putting things in order. She sang along to the music cheerfully. Sherlock did not mind Molly's singing – she had a pleasant soprano, and had obviously been trained at some point. Perhaps choir of some sort.

"Hullo-ullo, Mrs. Edwards," she said in a cheery voice, rolling out a 250 pound woman from one of the freezers. Sherlock admired Molly's strength in her deceptively small package. "Don't mind me, just checking to see if I left the Sharpie for your toe tag in here. Here it is! I thought so. Thank youuu!" She walked back to her table and scribbled out a few tags. Office work, she joked. Mrs Edwards lay silent as the music swelled.

Sherlock stifled a laugh.

He secretly found it endearing that Molly talked to the corpses in the morgue. She had a longstanding habit of doing that, to keep from feeling lonely during those long days. During medical school she had earned the nickname "Spooky," but really, Molly couldn't see the point of forgetting these people were living, breathing folk just a week ago.

Although he could be disgustingly clinical, Sherlock wasn't without humour, and he liked those odd idiosyncrasies about her. He especially liked that no one else seemed to know this, except perhaps Mrs Hudson, who had accidentally been the source of one of Molly's strange jokes.

He quickly averted his eyes back to the microscope, pretending he hadn't been watching the singing petite brunette.

"Well, I can't find a bloody thing," Sherlock snapped, rubbing his eyes. "I thought for sure the victim was poisoned by arsenic."

"Oh. Sorry," Molly said, spraying the counter with cleaning fluid.

"I don't know why you bloody apologise all the time for things irrelevant to the story," Sherlock grumbled. "You're hardly that offensive."

"Bad habit. Catholic guilt," she replied, shrugging her shoulders. "Anyway, don't mind me, Sherlock. Don't forget to check the fingernails."

Her resigned tone of voice struck a note with Sherlock all of a sudden, and he ignored the fact that she'd suggested something so obvious. He stole a glance at her as she sat down at her table, taking a bite of her muffin. She had gotten one for him when she returned from the cafeteria, knowing he had a secret fondness for sweets. Sherlock decided to eat some to get her attention.

"This is rather good," he said. "…For cafeteria food."

Molly smiled. "I'm glad you like it. Really, Sherlock, you're looking a bit gaunt these days. A muffin might do you some good. You do realise food is energy? Energy for cases? What do you live on, air?"

"Rubbish," he said, smirking. He polished off half of the muffin in a twinkling. He noticed something on her desk; something shiny. It was a small golden brooch with a lock of hair inside.

"Georgian, gold, 24 K. Looks to be a mourning piece," Sherlock said, zeroing his eyes on the bauble.

"Sorry?"

"Your brooch."

Molly's face lit up. She picked up the brooch and took it over to Sherlock so he could see the inscription on the back.

"Isn't it a nifty little pin? I had to tighten the clasp this morning so it wouldn't fall off my cardi. I bought it as a treat for my birthday last year. I rarely ever wear it, but it's so peculiar. I wonder who Arthur Rackley was. I'd love to analyse the hair, but that would ruin the brooch, wouldn't it?"

Sherlock turned over the curious piece in his hand, reading the inscription engraved on the back. _Arthur Rackley, died 1820, 35 years of age. _

'Fascinating," he said, with a twinkle in his eye. He never took kittens-and-daisies Molly Hooper to be someone who would be into that sort of thing, but Sherlock had no idea that Molly Hooper had been a goth at uni. Doctor Martens, black nails and lippie, the whole nine yards. He paused a moment, feeling his heartbeat accelerate slightly as their hands accidentally brushed., then steepled his fingers under his chin as Molly returned the brooch to her table.

"I love going to look for old curiosities like this," she continued, searching for the pen that seemed to have rolled off the desk. "Unusual things no one appreciates anymore. I thought your bug and skull collection was rather fun. Sorry I didn't get a chance to see more of it at Christmas," she finished, a little forlornly.

Suddenly, Sherlock said something that truly floored the both of them.

"Do you fancy a walk to Camden Passage?"

"Sorry?"

"You said you had a free afternoon. Would you like to go…searching for curiosities, as you say? That's a hobby of mine, as well. Obviously." He felt his throat constrict as the words came out of his mouth. Damn it.

Molly beamed. "Alright. I'll take the afternoon off! Oh, let me put Mrs Edwards back." She took one last glance before sliding the zaftig corpse back into the freezer. "She looks like the sort who would rap your knuckles with a heavy ring if you were naughty, doesn't she?"

Sherlock chuckled and put his scarf around his neck.

"Come on, Molly Hooper. Let's have an adventure."

"Right."


	2. Mutual Enjoyment

Sherlock and Molly arrived at the antique market some time later. It was a cold winter's day, and the breeze whipped through the streets. Molly was trying not to pinch herself, in that Sherlock had asked her to do something fun with him, but she was highly aware that it was.

He was in an uncommonly good mood, for not having solved his arsenic theory properly. Usually this kind of thing would throw him in a tizzy and he'd pout in the corner behind the microscope.

Molly didn't realize that the source of his good mood was partly that she had done her hair in a pleasing way, she smelled very nice (no bodies today), and she had put on a particular shade of purple that he liked. It matched his own purple shirt that he wore that day.

"Ooh! How lovely!" Molly exclaimed, pouncing on a booth, warming her fingertips in her fingerless gloves. A fine array of antique Victorian jewellery sparkled in the little glass tabletop case, and Molly, being a magpie of sorts, labored over it for a few minutes, examining every lovely piece inside. Sherlock pretended to be uninterested, but he took note that Molly Loved Jewellery. The Molly room in his Mind Palace was beginning to expand with lots of nice thoughts.

Sherlock wandered over to an antique books stall. For all his web use, Sherlock had a soft spot for old books. His grandfather had been an expert on incunabula, and donated his collection to the British Museum when he died. Sherlock collected medical books from the 19th century. He loved poring over the bizarre colour plates of bodies; reading the antiquated advice.

Molly walked over to him and peered around his arm as he became engrossed in a particular book.

"Oi, what's that then?" she chided, noticing Sherlock was looking at an illustration of a cross-section of a woman, curiously clothed in some areas, for being a splayed-open specimen.

"Medical text from 1886," he said. "Corsets. Beastly contraptions, displacing organs like that. Why on earth did women wear them?"

Molly laughed at the grisly illustration of the deformed woman. "Believe it or not, some wore them to hold themselves together after birthing eleven children," she said, nonchalantly. "Have you ever been to Philadelphia? There's a whole museum there with this sort of thing. Preserved bodies and the like."

Sherlock had, in fact, never been to Philadelphia. He made a mental note to visit there someday. Molly spied a vendor up the road a bit and told Sherlock she'd be there if he was looking for her. Sherlock did not respond; instead, he remained engrossed in his medical book and did not hear Molly. She took no offence, and ambled cheerfully down the street.

Sherlock ended up purchasing two books from that stall, and meandered around a bit more. He looked around for Molly, and caught sight of her amiably chatting with an elderly lady. He winced, hoping she wouldn't slip and mention "seeing her soon at the office," or one of her black humour jokes of that sort.

Fifteen minutes later, the two met up. Molly clutched a rather large bag. Sherlock's curiosity peaked.

"Did you find something interesting?"

"Yes, she beamed.

"Wonderful," he replied, unsmiling. "It's a good day to look around, the crowds don't like to brave this sort of weather, so there's less congestion." His breath puffed out little clouds. He didn't bother to ask what was in the large bag she carried, but he guessed it was a present for someone. He refrained from comment, remembering the sting of that unfortunate Christmas party. He felt his stomach growl.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. "It's near teatime."

"I am, as a matter of fact," she replied, shivering. Sherlock noted that her thin woolen coat was insufficient for the wind chill. Without a word, he took off his blue cashmere scarf and looped it around Molly's neck before she could protest. He popped the collar of his Belstaff. It would do.

"Thank you, Sherlock," she said. "Chivalry is not dead." She pulled it around her, grateful for its warmth. It smelled like him. Sherlock did not approve of perfumery for men, but whatever he used to bathe did have a rather pleasant smell, rather like cloves. She guessed (correctly) that John purchased the toiletries for the house, and John was fond of Old Spice. The idea made Molly chuckle a little to herself, picturing Sherlock washing with Old Spice soap, like her father did. Luckily the chill masked the blush that crept over her cheeks.

"Angelo's alright?" he asked, not wishing to dwell on the moment. The hunger was rising in his mind, and he didn't like the notion of hunger to occupy too much of his brainspace. Time to feed the body.

"Lovely," she replied. He hailed them a cab.

They arrived at Angelo's a little bit later, the sting of the winter wind beginning to whip up. Angelo seated them and smiled knowingly, when he saw Sherlock's scarf wrapped around the small woman with him. He made the appropriate fuss over Molly, until Sherlock tutted.

"That will do, Angelo. Order anything you fancy, Molly." He even got a large bottle of wine to split between them. Molly, in her corduroy trousers and purple turtleneck, felt rather underdressed. The whole thing was rather odd, but it did confirm her suspicions about what was going on with Sherlock.

Molly ordered a pasta carbonara, Sherlock a pasta primavera. She noticed his table manners were impeccable, something she didn't expect, since his regular manners could be so atrocious. They ate amiably in silence, something Sherlock was rather grateful for.

After they shared a tiramisu for dessert (Angelo's gift, much to Sherlock's mortification), Molly smiled and reached down for the bag from the antiques market.

"Happy birthday, Sherlock."

"How did…thank you," he said, completely befuddled. This was remarkable. "How did _you_ know it was my birthday?"

"I deduced it," she said, proudly. "Your good temper, your tolerance for my general presence, your unusual behaviour, taking me out to dinner. Thirty-five, is it?"

"Molly, do you…"

"Everyone deserves a present on their birthday. Everyone. My birthday was yesterday. Rubbish, being born so close to Christmas, innit?"

Not even John knew it was Sherlock's 35th birthday. No one knew, except Mycroft and Mummy, and neither had bothered to wish him one. They'd done away with that sort of frivolity years ago; they were mostly glad he was alive at all. But something vain, deep inside Sherlock made him wish people did care about that sort of thing. And again, Molly had shocked him with her observation. And he felt a twinge of guilt that he had no idea it was her own birthday the day before. Well, then, dinner would be his treat.

"Thank you," he said again, a smile finally creeping over his face. Molly chuckled, reached over, and squeezed his arm. She polished off the last of the dessert.

"Actually…alright. Do I open this now? Or later? I don't know how this works."

"It's your birthday, you do what you like," she replied.

Sherlock broke into a grin and tore open the present. This time he would not rob Molly of the pleasure of seeing him unwrap it. The present really was outstanding: a taxidermy two-headed rat, preserved under a lovely glass dome on a wooden stand.

Sherlock burst out laughing, as several other patrons whirled around in disgust. Molly laughed along with him. "This is the best present I've ever been given."

"DON'T PUT THAT VERMIN ON THE TABLE!" yelled Angelo from across the room. (If Sherlock had at last found a girlfriend, he thought, this was it.) Sherlock ignored him and placed it in the middle of the table as a grotesque centerpiece.

Molly beamed. "I put your fondness for taxidermy in the back of my mind at your party last year. I thought you'd find this amusing. Isn't it funny?" The rat's face had been frozen in an expression of permanent surprise. Not the most dignified taxidermy either had seen, but amusing nonetheless.

"Indeed. I'm…I wish…I wish I could give you something," he stammered. He'd never wanted so badly to give something to someone before. He wished he had gone back to the jewellery booth for a surprise for her. Sherlock felt embarrassment all of a sudden – a sentiment usually foreign to him.

"You have," she replied simply. "I needed a fun outing. I've been working too much. This really was a delightful day, Sherlock Holmes. I can't remember having so much fun before. You're utterly terrifying, usually."

"Bollocks," he replied, unsmiling, pouring them each a glass of wine. "I'm…Byronic." Molly burst out laughing.

They clinked glasses.

"Happy birthday, Molly Hooper."

"Happy birthday, Sherlock Holmes."


	3. A Gift For Molly

Unbeknownst to Molly, her gift of the two-headed rat was the grandest present Sherlock had ever received. Compared to that deerstalker hat, or the annual cigarette from Mycroft, the rat was exactly something he'd like.

The rat, too disturbing for Watson and Mrs Hudson's tastes, received a place of honour on Sherlock's specimen shelf in his bedroom. He examined it, chuckling at the terrible facial expression, but fascinated that someone had taken the time to preserve the grotesque creature.

Work duties took him back into the grind. A libel attempt, a missing jewellery collection, a royal dognapping. Mycroft certainly kept him busy. The press had a field day with the photo of Sherlock posing with the corgi. Molly herself kept a copy of the Sun with that cover. It made her laugh. She knew Sherlock was not a dog person. (He did, however, like cats.)

Sherlock then spent the next couple of weeks up in Edinburgh with Watson, working on a case involving the murder of a young man who had ended up being an heir to a large sum of money. The man had been electrocuted from the inside and the body moved elsewhere – it seems a toaster in the bath had been the likely tool.

Molly remained at St. Bart's, working the daywatch in the morgue. Mostly heart attacks; one overdose, a suicide by gunshot. The usual. Nothing particularly interesting. She missed Sherlock's bargings-in. His microscope sat unattended. Molly imagined conversations with him in the meantime, to keep herself amused. If Sherlock knew this habit of hers, he'd be mortified, she thought. She sipped her tea. Gone cold. Oh well.

Sherlock's case had hit a snag, and they would be detained for a while. Sherlock needed a break, despite pretending he was a machine. Watson took a day off to visit his sister, who happened to be on holiday nearby.

Sherlock felt more and more frustration, and his Mind Palace meditation sessions were not granting much reprieve. He kept wandering into Molly's room, much to his consternation. It wasn't her fault. He needed to deal with this so he could move on. The source of his distraction was an unfamiliar notion for him: a twinge of guilt. He really should find something for her as a thank you for the birthday gift.

He decided he needed a whole afternoon to clear his head, so he pulled on his coat and left the inn to go for a walk around Edinburgh. A shop caught his eye with its unusual display in the window. He entered it, sounding off a tinkling bell. The musty smell of antiques greeted Sherlock's nose with its comforting aroma. Old books, the scent of history. He took in the small shop with a quick surveying, then walked up to the checkout counter.

"Can I please examine the items in your display?" he asked the elderly gentleman behind the counter. I see something that might interest a…colleague of mine."

"Certainly, sir - right this way," chirped the clerk.

"And..do you do gift wrapping? I'm rotten at it."

"Me wife does. Cora, can you help this young man?"

Cora teetered out into the room clutching a Sun, and recognized the gentleman in the shop from the corgi picture. Her jaw dropped, and she looked at the paper in her hand to make sure it was him.

"Hamish, we have a celebrity visitor! Oh, this is bigger than Terry Wogan."

"Hmm?"

"Sherlock Holmes?" she asked timidly. Sherlock turned around, wondering how she knew his name at all, then his stomach churned a bit when he saw the corgi picture on the front page.

"Mmm," he replied, his cheeks turning a bit red.

"Could…could I have your autograph for our granddaughter?"

Sherlock sighed, forced a smile, and complied for the sweet lady. Her husband brought over the box.

"Since you're so famous," the man smiled, "we'll offer you a 15% discount for anything you purchase."

Sherlock's mood perked up a bit. Sometimes being recognisable wasn't horrible, after all.

-o0o-

Two days later, Molly checked her post and found a small, beautifully-wrapped brown-wrapped parcel with no return address but postmarked from Scotland. Her address had been written out in precise calligraphy in dip pen, something that none of her science-y friends or family had ever attempted, to be sure. She shook the box, but there was no rattling to reveal what might be inside.

She took the box up to her flat and looked at it for a minute, wondering who must have sent it. Carefully, she opened the side flap with a letter opener, careful not to disturb the packaging. A small card in a heavy-stock envelope accompanied it.

The gift was a small box lined in velvet, about the size of a case for eyeglasses. The case was covered in a very old, purple silk velvet, certainly from the 19th century. She immediately knew who it was from without opening the accompanying note. Her heart swelled and she felt her cheeks burning from embarrassment and a little gratitude.

Inside the case were two very old glass eyes. She laughed, but tears fell down her cheeks, too. This was the loveliest surprise she'd ever been given in her life. She almost forgot to open the card in her shock, but her elbow bumped it. In his precise hand, Sherlock had written a birthday greeting.

_I saw these in a shop window and I thought you might appreciate them. They are the same colour as your own. Forgive me for not knowing your birthday sooner. I hope this makes up for it. - SH_

Indeed, they were the exact same colour as Molly's eyes. She laughed at the idea of Sherlock walking down a street and being taken by these eyes, and then her heart began to beat when she realized he had made the connection that they reminded him of her. She was simultaneously amused and touched by this revelation.

She held the eyes up against her eyelids and made a face at Toby the cat. He was unimpressed, and fell back asleep.

"You've no sense of humour, cat," she chuckled.

Molly gently put them back in the box and stared at them for a few minutes, bewildered that Sherlock had done such a grand gesture. Obviously, he was going to need a thank you note.

….What the hell was he doing in Scotland?


	4. Further Correspondence

The case lasted another week, and finally Sherlock and Watson were able to apprehend the culprit. Sherlock was getting a bit tired of the unfamiliar Scottish accents, and was missing his rat.

At least, that was what he told himself.

He really did miss his own home. As much as this thrillseeker enjoyed doing something exciting to fend off the crippling boredom of everyday life, he missed the precise sagginess of his own sofa; the enveloping softness of his Tempur-pedic mattress (the inn had the worst mattresses he'd ever slept upon in his life) and Mrs Hudson's biscuits.

They'd spent nearly a month in Scotland, and Sherlock half hoped that Molly would have texted a thank you for the gift, or called (she wouldn't, she hated speaking on the phone as much as he did). It was nearly March, so there were probably a lot of dead people to autopsy. Suicides rose by the end of winter, he reasoned. He was trying not to be upset or worried by her lack of response, but it remained in the back of his mind as he and John boarded the train back to their beloved London.

-o0o-

They stepped out of the cab and headed up the steps. Mrs Hudson heard them.

"Boys!" she shouted. "Glad you're back. Did you solve your case?"

"It was obvious, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock grinned, pecking her on the cheek. Watson did the same. "The gardener did it."

"I never trusted those," she said. "I think spending all your time around ant killer and lime messes with your noodle." She tapped her head to demonstrate and pulled a tin from the side table in the hallway. "Biscuits?"

"You're a dear, Mrs Hudson," Watson replied, helping himself to a few.

"Oh! I nearly forgot. Sherlock, there's a very lovely parcel for you on the kitchen table. The postman dropped it off and I put it there so it wouldn't get lost. The only other post was bills, I'm afraid."

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat at Mrs Hudson's words, and he quickly turned around and leapt up the stairs two at a time. Watson scratched his head. Mrs Hudson shrugged, winked, and went back into her flat.

Watson found Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, moments later, staring at a beautifully-wrapped package in front of him.

"What's that, then?" asked Watson.

"Well. OBVIOUSLY, it's a package, John."

"Aren't you going to open it? Who's it from? Is there a return address? Be careful, it might contain anthrax or something."

"One could only hope. From the return address and handwriting on the label, however, I know exactly who sent it, so I am not concerned, and neither should you be." Sherlock's tone of voice was growing increasingly arrogant - mostly from hidden embarrassment of John learning his secret, so it was a misguided attempt to fend him off from asking why women were sending him presents.

John knew well enough to step back and let Sherlock alone, especially after the icy death glare he got soon after the words were out of Sherlock's mouth.

"Right, just going to watch telly," he replied. "Long trip. I'm tired."

"You do that," mumbled Sherlock, picking the small parcel up in his hand and examining the best way to open it without spoiling the wrapping too much. He went to the knife block and got a small knife, cutting open the package with surgical precision, and taking it back to his room for privacy. (John was obviously peeking around the corner to see what it was.)

-o0o-

The card inside contained the long-awaited message from Molly.

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_Your thoughtful present was too lovely to thank in a text, so I thought I'd write a note. I didn't realise you were in Scotland. I saw this at a bring-and-bye at Mum's church last weekend, and knew you would probably like it. Love, Molly xxx_

_PS I scared Toby! Muahaha!_

To Sherlock's delight, the accompanying present was a daguerreotype portrait of a mourning woman in black holding a book, presumably her bible. He was amused that some little old lady would have sold such an old thing at a church rummage sale, and there came along Molly to find it. He examined the beautiful little photo and its delicate wooden case. The latch was coming loose on it; he didn't want to wreck the precious piece.

To say that Sherlock was touched by Molly's thoughtfulness would be an understatement. In the deep recesses of that part of his brain containing emotions, the embers of love began to smoulder a little, but he didn't know what it was. At the moment, all he could think about was how much fun it would be to respond to her kindness with something charming.

He went to his writing desk and took out a piece of stationery. It was lined with a Florentine pattern, a gift from Mummy years ago that he rarely ever used – writing was too tedious.

Sherlock had a new trick up his sleeve for his pathologist.

-o0o-

"Mornin', Dr Hooper!"

"Hello, Nancy. Any post for me this afternoon?" Molly had walked past the mailroom where the staff assistant was sorting the post.

"Just the usual. Billing reports, stuff from the courts…" replied Nancy. She reached into the sack and pulled out a very large and fancy envelope, decorated quite exquisitely.

"Ehm….and this," chuckled Nancy. "You have a new boyfriend, then? Is it from that bloke up in IT who had his eye on you?"

"What bloke? IT? I'm done with that department," replied Molly quickly, a shiver going through her. She remembered her brush with Moriarty.

"Roger, the ginger one with the nose."

"Oh. Ehmm…not my type, really."

"Pity. Mind if I ask him out, then?"

"Go for it," Molly replied absently, fingering the envelope with a grin on her face.

"Whoever sent that must be very special," Nancy hinted. "I bet it holds something romantic."

"Possibly," Molly grinned. "Right, going down to the dungeon. Have a nice day!" Nancy deflated at not getting a peek at the curious envelope. Oh, well. Molly was a very lucky lady. Maybe Roger from IT was a romantic.

-o0o-

Molly sat at her desk and carefully opened the letter. She pulled out a carefully folded drawing, elabourately rendered in pen and ink with delicate bits of colour.

It was a picture of the two-headed rat, being petted by the mourning lady in the daguerreotype. The lady was no longer forlorn-looking. She had a slight smile on her face as her hand stroked the fur of the idiotically happy-looking rat.

Molly had no idea Sherlock was such a talented artist, but he had in fact been classically trained, and did sketches from time to time. Since the advent of the internet and cameraphones, he no longer needed to sketch as much to remember details, and had largely abandoned the practice. But the drawing was so funny and touching. The rat and the lady had found each other, she thought.

She pulled out the accompanying letter.

_Molly,_

_I will need some feet this week for an experiment on the effects of frostbite. – SH_

Molly burst out laughing.

That afternoon during her lunch break, she went to the art supply store and purchased a frame for her beloved drawing. The framer was rather confused and disturbed by the subject matter, but it clearly meant a lot to her. The framer hoped this young woman hadn't paid much for such a hideous rat picture. The artist was good, at least. The framer chuckled to himself. _Maybe that thing will be worth millions of pounds one day._

-o0o-

That night, Sherlock went down to the morgue, hoping to run into Molly. She had gone home for the night, but on her table were two rolls of Smarties and a note for him. He looked up and saw his drawing, beautifully matted and framed, hanging above her work desk. He smiled, popping open the Smarties and throwing some in his mouth.

_Sherlock,_

_Feet are in the freezer in a container marked for you. Tell me what you find. Home this evening if you need me. – Molly xx_

-o0o-

Three hours later, Molly heard a knock at her door.

"Who is it?" she called, from the sofa.

"Rat," a booming, deep voice called from the hallway.


	5. Sherlock Crashes

Molly opened the door with her shy but knowing smile. She couldn't believe who was at her door, but at the same time she was overjoyed by his visit.

"Hullo, Rat," she said, simply. "Fancy a cuppa? I just put the kettle on, and it's a bit nippy out there, innit? Warm up a bit."

"That would be lovely, thank you." It was disgustingly cold outside, that bitter March wind that cuts through you with bone-chilling damp. Molly took Sherlock's coat and scarf and placed them on the hallway coat hook.

Sherlock walked behind her, inhaling the pleasant scent of the room, and took a look around the place. He had never been there before, but decided that since Molly bothered to put a return address on her package, he might as well visit it to thank her for the feet.

The living room was the polar opposite of the Baker Street living room: sunlit and cheerful, with little touches of hominess here and there. Where Baker Street doubled almost as a natural history museum in places, Molly's home was simple, modern and tasteful.

A handmade afghan in coral and teal draped over the sofa. The cat sleeping on top of it with a Mona Lisa smile on its face. Overflowing bookshelf in the corner with small curios resting on a shelf behind the settee…probably heirlooms from a family member. A photo of her father on the mantel, but curiously none of her mother. A portrait of Toby the cat. And in a place of honour, the lovely glass eyes under a vase full of white carnations. Sherlock made a note of her taste in flowers.

Molly did not miss where Sherlock's eyes darted.

"They're for January," she said.

Sherlock gave her a puzzled look.

"Carnations. January's traditional flower," she said, startling Sherlock from his silence. "My dad used to get me a small bouquet for my birthday every year. I've always been fond of them. Go have a seat, I'll get our tea ready. Don't mind Toby, he's a lazy arse."

Sherlock nodded, said thank you politely, and decided to sit on the settee with the cat. He expected it to run away into another room, but Toby simply looked up at him, got up slowly, stretched, and plopped on Sherlock's lap.

"Two sugars?" Molly yelled from her kitchen.

"Correct," Sherlock replied, finding his fingers stroking Toby's velvet-like fur. The cat responded with a purr. Sherlock smiled. He had a cat when he was a young boy, named Autolycus. He'd been incredibly fond of his pet and the two were inseparable for a happy three years, but unfortunately Mycroft accidentally ran him over when he started driving. Sherlock tried for years to forget the unfortunate incident, and vowed to never have another pet after that. But feeling the contented, purring cat on his lap brought back a warm rush of nostalgia for his lost companion. Despite himself, he felt his eyes moisten as he remembered that dreadful day. He blamed it on allergies. Autolycus was the only animal he never felt the need to dissect.

Molly entered the room with two beakers of tea emblazoned with pictures of the Fourth Doctor.

"Here you go, Sherlock," she said, handing him a cup. "I haven't had time to go for groceries in the past few weeks. I have certainly earned two days off. Anyway, long story short…sorry, I'm out of biscuits."

"I'm not," Sherlock replied, walking over to the coat hook and retrieving a small tin.

"What are these?"

"I don't know. Mrs Hudson made them. They're quite nice. She said they're snicker-somethings."

"Oh, never heard of them," she replied, popping one in her mouth. They were delicious – cinnamon, vanilla, crumbly. The perfect accompaniment to their tea. "You look absolutely knackered, Sherlock. I hope you're taking care of yourself. Did you get the feet I left for you?"

"Yes, thank you. They're at Baker Street in the chest freezer. I'll be sure to send you my results once I've finished. " Molly smiled.

"What are they for this time?" she asked. "They belonged to a man named Lloyd, he had a stroke. He wasn't very pleasant."

"They're for an experiment regarding the time frostbite gets to be a certain colour, to determine a time of death for an unfortunate fellow fished out of the Thames. I say murder, Anderson insists it was suicide because he's an idiot."

"Well, that's true regardless," she smiled. Toby hopped off Sherlock's lap to head over to his food dish.

Molly knew full well what Sherlock meant. Anderson was good at his job, but he often missed some things that Sherlock picked up much more clearly, and Molly had to admit that Sherlock was nearly 95% right, while Anderson hovered around 75%.

The pair sat in amiable silence for a few minutes, both exhausted from their week. Usually Molly, in a fit of nerves, would attempt small talk, but in her own home, she was much more relaxed, and didn't feel the need to put Sherlock on the spot with her nerves. Strangely, when he was on her turf, she felt empowered, comfortable. Sherlock, usually unaccustomed to feeling comfort in anyone else's home but Mrs Hudson's, surprisingly felt right at home in Molly's flat. He absently leafed through her copy of Bust magazine until he felt his eyes close in drowsiness. The silent comfort of her home had lulled the tired young man into sleep.

Two hours later, he awoke to the Watson ping on his mobile. Blast, he thought, his mind clearing from the fog of sleep.

Molly was perched on the armchair opposite the sofa, dreamily reading a PD James novel. Molly had her hair loosely tied up in a soft bun at the top of her head, rather like that of a Gibson girl. She twirled a stray tendril of hair around her finger.

She wore a hand-knit black and white Fair Isle jumper with a pair of brick red corduroy trousers, and black socks with little cats printed on them. He became acutely aware of the curve of her lips, the little flare of her nostrils when she breathed in, and that minute scar on the side of her temple. He felt his heart quicken as the light in the window shifted and made her dark red-brown hair glow like a corona around her head.

So it has happened, he thought. It must have happened long ago.

He felt his throat parch as he rose out of sleep, trying not to disturb the beautiful vision of Molly Hooper in the light. He realized the afghan was draped around him and Toby remained on his lap, purring. The magazine had slipped from his hand onto the floor.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," she said, suddenly aware of his gaze, feeling her cheeks flush. The spell was broken.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"A few hours," she replied, smiling. "You must have been exhausted. Either that or Bust was a dreadfully boring read for you."

"I was," he replied, checking his….twenty…texts from Watson. "But I feel…wonderful, actually. Sorry for being such a disgraceful visitor."

"I've had worse," she said. "We will not be watching _Glee._ But, since you're here, do you just want to stay a while?"

Sherlock scrolled through his text list, almost not hearing her as she went into her bedroom.

_Hey. Where are you? –JW_

_I'm going out for milk and bread, do you need anything? – JW_

_Mrs Hudson wants the rent cheque tomorrow – JW_

_Lestrade is looking for you – JW_

_Someone keeps calling the flat asking about marketing deerstalkers – JW_

_Body found in King's Cross, possible murder, Lestrade wants to know if you want to take on the case - JW_

_Sherlock? Are you getting these or is your phone dead again? – JW_

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock asked, scrolling through some more. The usual twinge to jump up and call upon Lestrade tonight was gone. He needed to regenerate. He texted Watson back.

_**I'm on holiday. Rent is on my dresser. I want some Ribena. See you soon. - SH**_

"You're welcome to hang out here if you have nothing else to do," Molly said. "I'm putting my feet up and relaxing tonight. It's been a long fortnight. I'll order takeaway if you're hungry. I could do with a curry, myself."

Sherlock's initial sense was to decline her offer and head back to Baker Street, but he thought better of it. He was warm, comfortable, and in good company. If he delved a little deeper into his psyche, he'd be able to recognize that he was happy to finally be with his friend Molly. But this was not Sherlock's nature. Instead, he nodded, untied his shoes, and propped up his feet on the ottoman.

"What's on the telly?" he asked.

Molly smiled.

-o0o-

Several blocks away, Watson's phone pinged with the long-awaited text from Sherlock.

"Holiday? Ribena? What the living hell, Sherlock? Is this a code?" John said to himself.

Oh well, he might as well take the night off, too. He hit the keypad and dialed a number.

"Hullo, Mary? John. You busy tonight? Great. Fancy a drink?"


	6. Takeaway and Yelling

The whole evening, while Sherlock had deeply napped on her settee, Molly could barely believe he was in her flat. Toby, who had bitten Jim on the hand, also seemed to find his gaunt, lean frame quite comfortable to nest in. She'd tucked Sherlock in comfortably under the afghan her mother had knitted her years ago, and decided that she might as well get some reading done in the meantime. Her friend Ellie had suggested PD James to her on Goodreads, so she had picked up a copy that afternoon at a used book store.

Every so often she'd glance at Sherlock's sleeping frame, the curls framing his forehead, his normally-taut cupid's bow lips finally relaxed almost into a content smile. It warmed her heart, but made it ache all the more. She'd sighed, popped a biscuit in her mouth, and thumbed through the well-worn book.

And now he was awake, and miraculously…staying. Molly hadn't exactly planned on any visitors. Her long hours had alienated most of her social circle, and her awkwardness around others had made it difficult to make friends since uni.

"Well," she said, "I'm afraid there isn't much on at the moment. I have some DVDs…mostly chick flicks, but there are some other films we could watch. Do you like cheesy science fiction, suspense, or historical dramas?

Mystery films were out. Sherlock loathed them because he always solved the puzzle within half an hour, so any element of surprise was stolen from him. They decided upon some terrible B-movie horror film from the 1950s.

The lamb vindaloo takeaway arrived and they ate their dinner, talking a little about the frostbite possibilities. Sherlock was never surprised by Molly's expertise, which was why he liked working with her so much. But as she prattled away on some theories about the victim, he found himself listening less to what she was actually saying, and focusing more on how beautiful she looked with that hair style.

Molly popped it in the player, and, timidly shooing Toby off the settee, sat next to Sherlock. It was the only chair facing the television.

"Why did you shoo him off?" asked Sherlock. He was quite comfortable."

As if to reinforce what Sherlock said, Toby hopped back up on the settee and snuggled between them.

As it turned out, both Sherlock and Molly had an affinity for screaming at the telly – something that drove John insane when Sherlock did it at home, and something Mycroft hated when the boys were growing up. Sherlock was pleasantly surprised to finally have an accomplice in this habit.

"I CAN SEE THE STRING PULLING THAT STUPID BAT," Molly yelled.

"OBVIOUSLY. Did you see the set shake just now – there, it's doing it again!" he pointed at the TV, pulling his legs up under his chin. Toby stretched out and yawned as they continued shouting. Finally, the climax of the movie came up and they were both roaring with laughter at the absurd "ghost" that appeared on the mansion stairway.

"It looks like someone drew bloody Joan Crawford eyebrows on it," she laughed, wiping tears from her eyes.

Sherlock had no idea who Joan Crawford was, but he was otherwise preoccupied by the wires that obviously made the actor float stiffly down the hall as some buxom actress screamed. He did an impression of her that made Molly laugh even harder.

"I..I can't breathe," she said, holding her sides. "This was by far the worst movie I've ever seen."

The two started having a conversation entirely in film quotes, laughing at the stilted language.

"No one talks like that in real life, except Mycroft," Sherlock snickered.

Molly got up, holding her sides. "Sherlock, you're a delight to watch a film with. I haven't laughed so hard in a long time."

Sherlock sat back against the settee, pleased as punch, crossing his hands over his stomach. Molly returned a few minutes later, dressed in her pyjamas. Suddenly she turned off the lights.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm glowing!"

Sherlock burst out laughing at Molly's glow in the dark skulls printed on her pyjamas. She turned the light back on, grinning.

"I thought you'd find those funny," she said. "Back at uni my mates and I used to go to raves and I'd dance around with glow sticks and wear a shirt with a black light pelvis printed on it," she added, giggling.

"How's your social life these days, Molly Hooper?"

"Tonight: fair to middling. The usual forecast, dreary," she sighed, settling back down next to Sherlock and propping her feet up on the coffee table.

"Mmm." Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and closed his eyes.

"Sorry, am I boring you?" asked Molly, worry creeping on her face.

"Not in the least," he replied, his eyes still closed. "If you must know, I'm trying to picture you engaging in that activity and am having some difficulty."

Molly laughed and gently bopped Sherlock with a throw pillow. To her surprise, he shifted to a reclining position and gently lay his head in her lap, his dark curls splayed out over the soft flannel of her skull pyjamas.

"Are you comfortable, then?" she asked, half-jokingly.

"Do you mind this?" he replied, sleepily.

"No," she admitted, her heart pounding faster and faster at his proximity to her. Sherlock rarely ever touched her, except to guide her places. He felt her accelerated heartbeat pulsing through her body, and knew. A contented smile crept over his as they settled into a comfortable position.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"Would you mind terribly if I played with your hair? I've always wanted to."

"Do what you like," he replied sleepily. Molly took his feigned flippancy as a yes, and began to stroke his hair gently, running her fingers through the luxurious curls. Waves of pleasure rippled through Sherlock's body as she massaged the sensitive scalp.

They sat like this a long time. Sherlock fell sound asleep in Molly's lap, and she finished most of her book, never breaking the spell of playing with his hair. Finally, she put down the book, switched off the table light, leaned back, and drifted off to Sherlock's heavy sleep-breathing.

Some time later, Sherlock awoke, perhaps missing the rhythmic comfort of his hair being stroked, and looked up to see Molly sound asleep. He shifted and turned over, pulling Molly down against him. She stirred in her sleep, then nestled her small body against his, between him and the back of the settee. She stretched a little and rested her hand against his heart. At first it accelerated, then, as he drifted into slumber, matched her own. He looked at her tenderly, and, without disturbing her, kissed her gently in her hair.

The sofa was rather deep and soft, perfect for two. Sherlock wrapped his left arm around Molly and pulled the afghan over them. The strange little trio slept the deepest of sleeps together that night., for Toby had rejoined them, nestling between Sherlock's knees.

"Molly Hooper," he whispered to the darkness.


	7. Breakfast and Betrayal

It was early when Molly awoke to find herself clinging to Sherlock Holmes on her settee, like a little baby opossum. Sherlock was still in deep slumber, his mouth slightly agape. He looked absurd, his curls in utter disarray. Not wanting to wake him, she nimbly rolled over onto the floor. He shifted back into the cushions into nearly a foetal position.

Although Molly had harboured a terrible schoolgirl crush on Sherlock Holmes since the day he burst into her life, zipping through her lab with Lestrade, her feelings toward him had both intensified and softened through their interesting friendship over the past few months.

Most men she'd gone out with had taken her on a date, which automatically ended up in a make-out session in someone's living room, some awkward fondling, and, in some cases, a sleepover that led nowhere. But those days had been long past for some time. Molly's only serious boyfriend had left her after uni for her…ex-best friend, Christine. Chrissy and Mick were married now, with two precious children that looked like him.

She knew this through that bloody Facebook, with its occasional reminders that they existed. "DO YOU KNOW THIS PERSON?" the sideline seemed to scream at her. And she always clicked. Always. And it always hurt. The little redheaded tots they constantly photographed seemed to be mocking her. "You could have been our Mummy!" she imagined them saying. Stupid kids. Mick had since abandoned the eyeliner and Joy Division shirts and was now looking quite respectable as an investment broker who now went by "Michael." And Chrissy was now a stay-at-home mum who frequently posted links to homemade baby food recipes in her Pinterest account. Molly's innate sense of Schadenfreude would surface, deeming her once-slutty friend the Godmother of the Mummy Mafia.

"Piss on them," Molly grumbled, still keenly feeling that pang of many single women in their mid-thirties. Molly was ultimately glad she was not in that spectrum of designer cloth nappies and "Mummy and me playdates." Mick/Michael had done her a favour long ago. No suburban hell for her.

Molly changed out of her skull pyjamas and into a comfortable day outfit: a green blouse and jeans. She toned down her sock choice today with little black outline skulls. Skulls were her favourite pattern after cats. She brushed her hair out, looked in the mirror, and smiled. She finally looked well-rested, and the man she loved was with her. She peeked around the corner. Sherlock had turned over in his sleep, and now faced her hallway. His usual scowl and mocking tones at rest, he looked positively angelic in his sleep.

Molly puttered around in the kitchen, making them a nice breakfast. The smell of coffee and baking wafted into the living room, waking Sherlock pleasantly. She heard him groan his way grouchily out of slumber, stretching his long legs out, hearing the joints crack from the other room.

"Morning, Rip Van Winkle," called Molly, "Just making us some brekky!"

"Mhhhhhhh," replied Sherlock, rubbing his eyes.

"Bathroom's round the corner," she continued, chopping peppers. "I set out a fresh towel and soap for you, if you want a shower. I've had two cups of coffee already, so forgive me if I seem a bit bouncy. There's half a pot left if you want some. I'm out of milk, so it'll have to be cream."

Sherlock seemed to ignore everything she said except "bathroom," but she knew he heard her and kept right on working.

Half an hour later, Sherlock emerged, freshly clean and looking more like his regal self. Molly had made a regular feast for them: scones, coffee, scrambled eggs with bacon, and homemade marmalade that had come from her Aunt Wendy.

The two ate in silence. Molly read through the morning tabloid, and burst scone crumbs out of her mouth when she saw page 3: a picture of Sherlock in that dreadful hat.

"Oh, look at this, it's Sherlock Holmes, super hero!"

"Ugh," Sherlock groaned, seeing the hated photo. "That bloody hat is never going away. It's the most ridiculous thing. I hate John for putting it on my head. You shouldn't be reading such filth, Molly Hooper," he chided, spreading marmalade over a scone and taking a bite. It was heaven.

"You look like Elmer Fudd," she laughed, taking a bite. She nearly choked when she turned the page.

"What?"

"Ehm, nothing," she said, quickly shutting the paper, turning red. He didn't miss that. Quick as a cat, Sherlock snatched the paper from her and opened it to the offending page.

SPECIAL MYSTERY EDITION: HAS SHERLOCK HOLMES AT LAST FOUND LOVE?

The tabloid showed a blurry photo of Molly and Sherlock at Angelo's from a couple of weeks ago, as well as a photograph of them at the antiques market back in January. The story provided several eyewitness accounts of Sherlock's budding love life with exclusive stories from the antique store owners in Edinburgh. Cora described in great detail how he wanted a mysterious gift, wrapped "special" and embellishing a bit by saying he'd told her it was for a woman he was seeing. At least she refrained from telling the paper what the gift was, or else he would really have been mocked.

"Bollocks!" Sherlock thought, skimming through the rest of the article.

"I'm sorry, Molly," he said putting the paper on the table. "I believe I know who is behind this."

"You do?" Molly was mortified by the entire thing. She shoveled forkfuls of egg and bacon in her mouth to stifle the tears she wanted to shed. This was so embarrassing.

His phone pinged. He walked over to the coffee table and retrieved it. New text.

_Something to explain to me, brother dear? – MH_

_**Drop dead.**_

_All in due time. I hope you haven't done anything foolish. She has secure windowblinds. -MH_

_**I hate you.**_

_Expect a car in twenty minutes. Mummy is here and demands to see you. -MH_

Sherlock didn't respond. He boiled in anger at his brother. He was grateful for Mycroft's interference when he had come off drugs, but this sort of privacy invasion enraged him. Well, he was uninterested in "the job." And he wasn't going to wait around for Mycroft's towncar, with that bloody bitch who never talked to anyone and texted the whole time. He was furious. Livid. Fine, Mycroft, I'll give you something to report, he thought.

"You alright there, Sherlock?" Molly asked timidly, clearing her dishes. She popped the last scone, nearly whole, in her mouth.

"Molly, do you fancy a day in the country?"

"Blummuggh?" she said, mouth full of crumbles.

"Get your coat!" he barked, more sharply than he wanted to.

Molly stomped into the room in anger, chewing the wad of scone like a chipmunk, swallowing, and clearing her throat before laying into Sherlock.

"You're not going to order me around in my own home, you bloody git. That might work at the lab, but not when you're enjoying my bloody hospitality. Now, tell me what's going on before I smack you." She was glaring daggers at him.

Sherlock remained unfazed, still shaking in anger at Mycroft.

"My brother. He's behind the tabloid."

"Oh." Molly furrowed her brow, trying to make sense of what he was trying to say.

"No time for explanation right now, the car will be round shortly. We have exactly five minutes to get out of here and to the Tube. Where's the closest stop?"

"A block away."

"Good. Perfect."

Sherlock spinned her around, walked her toward the coathook, and put her coat over her shoulders. He wrapped his scarf around her neck and put on his own coat. She grabbed her purse from the side table.

"You didn't ask if I wanted to go,' she began to protest. "You're kidnapping me, really."

Sherlock turned around and looked at her with his most severe face.

"You want to stay home and do the washing-up, or have an adventure with me? I'm fine with either."

Molly started to facetiously say "stay at home," but was silenced when Sherlock, scowling his Most Stormiest Face, dipped down and kissed her gently on the forehead.

"Alright, where are we going?" she said, weakly. He took her hand.

"I told you, the Tube."


	8. A Comely Captive In Cambridge

Half an hour later, Molly and Sherlock were at King's Cross Station, boarding the next train for Cambridge. He'd paid for the tickets in cash, to make it more difficult to trace. He knew Mycroft's camera in the station was not working because he'd walked right up to it and taped it before going to the ticket agent.

He was taking no chances. Mycroft would be especially aggressive, now that Mummy was in on this.

"Alright, we're on the train," she said, still unclear on what had transpired over the past hour.

"Your powers of observation are remarkable, Molly Hooper."

"Mmm. Do you happen to observe a loo anywhere, Eagle-eyes?" she asked. That coffee was expanding her bladder quite painfully and it would be 90-minute trip to Cambridge. She spotted her desired destination before he pointed toward it, and walked up the aisle.

She returned a few minutes later in a more comfortable state. Sherlock looked up, smiled, and slid his feet over. He'd let her have the window seat, which was quite sweet of him.

"Thank you," she said, settling in. "Now that we're on our way, can you please give me the rundown on what has happened?"

Sherlock explained to her that Mycroft had been spying on him with his security camera network. He was petulant that he had not shared with him any information pertaining to their friendship, so he had tipped off the tabloids to force Sherlock into telling him the details. Molly's ears burned as he nonchalantly described how creepy Mycroft could be.

"My brother is an arse," he concluded.

"Well, yeah," Molly replied, weakly.

"The fact of the matter is, now that this has been uncovered, we'd be harassed nonstop in London. If we go to Cambridge, Mycroft can't do his surveillance as easily and we'll have a day or two for him to find us."

"This is absurd," Molly replied, folding her arms. "How long are we going to be there?"

"A day or two. …Or three," he added, quickly.

"I have to feed my bloody cat, Sherlock. He'll be eating my houseplants if he gets too hungry."

"Oh. Right." He snatched her phone from her hands and texted someone.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Her tone was darkening quickly. The text ping on her phone replied immediately.

"I just took care of it. See?" He handed her the phone. He'd texted Mrs Hudson as Molly, asking her to pop round to feed Toby for the next three days, explaining that the spare key could be found in the "most obvious spot ever": the secret slide in Molly's postal box.

"How did you…never mind," she replied. "I am only wearing clothes for one day. If we're having ourselves an adventure for the rest of the week, I should probably have a change. You didn't let me pack."

"MYCROFT didn't let you pack," he retorted, closing his eyes.

"YOU didn't. I'm not relishing the idea of bein' Miss Stinky Sue all week, and I reckon you wouldn't, either." Sherlock opened his eyes and stifled a laugh.

"We'll get other clothes, they have shops." Sherlock replied, picking up the train manual stuffed in the pocket in the seat in front of him. "There wasn't time. It's better this way. Ooh, what to do in an emergency! Shall I read it to you, Molly? Riveting stuff."

She sat back and watched the landscape gradually change as they whisked through toward their "unknown destination."

"Go ahead," she replied, chuckling as Sherlock proceeded toread the manual in dramatic tones.

-o0o-

"Bloody hell, the bastard isn't answering," John grumbled. He was in bed with Mary, having woken late from an evening of partying. He had a blinding hangover, some vaguely pleasant memories of the previous night, and no idea where Sherlock Holmes had gone.

"Mmmm," replied Mary, turning over in her sleep.

John got up, dressed, put the kettle on, and fetched the paper from Mary's front door. He sat at the kitchen table, eating stale Jammie Dodgers, when he opened page three. He nearly choked.

"OH MY GOD," he exclaimed. "I didn't know you had it in you, you idiot," John laughed, reading the salacious article. Mary stumbled into the room, mumbling something about needing caffeine. She popped a biscuit in her mouth and crunched her way over to the coffee maker.

John held up the paper her way.

"Sherlock's found himself a lady friend," he said, proudly.

"Muugggh," she replied, uninterested, pouring herself a heaping mug of coffee. She swallowed the rest of the Jammie Dodger. "Fantastic, they're stale. I love them this way," she added, having sipped the bitter nectar, moistening the crumbs in her mouth. "Happy for him. Who is he, again?"

"Well, according to this article, 'a love-struck Lord Byron," Watson said, laughing even harder. Oh, my, this must have INFURIATED him, no wonder he was acting so strangely. Well, good for him, thought Watson, finally understanding Sherlock's intensely guarded parcel with the lovely wrapping job. And good for…holy shit, was that MOLLY HOOPER with him? The hair was unmistakable.

The story just kept getting funnier and funnier. Molly the kitty-cat queen with Sherlock the scowling child. The idea was ridiculous, considering that hot dominatrix had been all over Sherlock some time back and he took no notice…maybe Sherlock had a secret side to him. Watson shook his head in disbelief. While Sherlock was gone, he'd snoop in his room when he got back. This would be a better raid than drugs, to be certain.

-o0o-

They arrived in Cambridge an hour or so later. The afternoon was quite nice, and they walked around the city. Sherlock had always been fond of Cambridge.

Molly wondered aloud how Sherlock seemed to know the town so well.

"I studied chemistry at Sidney Sussex," he replied. "Even have the school scarf somewhere in my closet."

Oh, so that explained it, thought Molly. She'd gone to Sir William Dunn for pathology, herself. Oxford had also been a lovely place to go to uni. She missed it. Sherlock must have been equally fond of Cambridge, she concluded. How lovely that he wanted to share that feeling with her. She realized he might not exactly know why they were there, but Cambridge was special to Sherlock, and now it was special to her, too.

They meandered around the ancient, winding town, stopping at several shops to pick up garments for themselves. Sherlock, feeling a bit guilty for yanking Molly out of town, offered to buy her whatever clothing she would need for the next few days. Molly felt a little uncomfortable at this prospect, but he insisted.

"Trust me, it's no bother," he said, not wanting to pursue the subject much further. She selected a few inexpensive items, including undergarments, much to her embarrassment, but Sherlock was unfazed, glancing in confusion at the lingerie contraptions women wore. He ran his finger over the black lace of a rather racy kelly green pair. He suddenly picked it up and tossed it toward Molly, who caught them.

"Here, these are rather attractive," he said, unsmiling. "They go nicely with the shade of your hair."

Molly's jaw dropped in shock. She blinked, ran her hand over her face, reddening to nearly the colour of a tomato, and quietly added them to the pile.

"Right, ehm…thank…thank you," Molly said, after paying the cashier, wanting to disappear through the floor.

"Enjoy your evening," the cashier called, in a knowing voice.

After Sherlock and Molly had left, the cashier turned to the floorwalker. "Was that who I think it was?"

"No mistake," her companion giggled. "Sherlock Holmes on a dirty weekend with that stammering cow! Didn't you think she was a little bit hideous with that mouth?"

"Lucky bitch. I'd shag him in a minute," admitted the cashier, examining her fingernails. She pulled out a file.

"Me too. He must have a big one. Did you see the size of his hands?"

The women shrieked with laughter, sounding like a pair of screech owls.

-o0o-

"Sherlock, you really have to think before opening your gob like that," Molly chided, discreetly putting the lingerie bag in the larger bag.

"Hmm?" he replied, adjusting his scarf. "I was assisting you in your selection. You look nice in green and those were your size. I observed that."

"Never mind," she said, suddenly realising that Sherlock had absolutely no idea what he had implied, and had no idea he'd made a vulgar double entendre.

Sherlock found them a rather charming, large inn. Not wanting to double the chances of being found sooner by signing his own name, he had Molly register the room under an alias, and he paid for three days up front, in cash, to the innkeeper's delight.

"It has a lovely bed," the innkeeper hinted. "Tempur-Pedic mattresses in all rooms now." Molly blushed.

"Thank you, that will do nicely," Sherlock replied flatly, taking Molly's bags and carrying them up the stairs and down the hallway.

"Your sense of chivalry is admirable."

-o0o-

Molly set down her things, looking around the large Victorian bedroom, quaintly furnished with the plush loveliness of the late 19th century. Oriental rugs, a fern in the corner, no telly, even. She half expected horses to come trotting past. Strangely enough, Sherlock looked as if he had sprouted forth his very existence in these surroundings. His old-fashioned demeanour seemed _correct_ in this room. Perhaps he was an old soul, trapped in 21st century London. She smiled, picturing him in a top hat and tails, like something out of a novel. Molly daydreamed a few minutes about the bygone days of long bustle skirts and high collars, when Sherlock turned around and noticed her sitting with her eyes closed, a dreamy smile creeping over her face. He sniffed in amusement.

"Are these accommodations suitable, Molly?"

She chuckled, opening her eyes. "It's a rather pleasant place to be held hostage, innit? I'd almost forgotten what it was like to be out of a morgue during the afternoon."

Sherlock smiled and put his clothes in the closet. He held out his hand for Molly's bags and put hers in there, as well. She yanked the undergarment bag out beforehand.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm?" he asked, picking off a piece of lint from his new purple shirt.

"What are we doing?"

"Having a holiday," he replied. "That's what ordinary people do, isn't it? Go on holidays?"

"Yes, I suppose so," Molly replied. "You have to admit, this is a very odd way of going about it."

"Well, you and I are having a holiday as if we were ordinary people. I just decided at the very, very last minute."

"Ah. Well, this is rather fun," Molly replied, tossing a pillow at Sherlock. He caught it with a smile. She puzzled a bit over what he meant by "as if we were ordinary people." He often made slips like that in conversation, as if in his mind they were set apart, somehow. It made her feel rather warm and fuzzy.

"Splendid," he said. "I will meet you in half an hour down in the lobby. I've some business to attend to in the meantime. Let's go on an outing this afternoon. The river is quite lovely, although I'm afraid I've never gone punting on it."

"Oh! I love to go punting! We did it all the time at uni," Molly exclaimed. "Mick fell in once, though, he smelled awful, like fishy fungus."

"I don't know who Mick is, but served the moron right," replied Sherlock, exiting the room as he tossed the throw pillow back at her. Molly had to agree.

-o0o-

"Oh yes, Miss Hooper texted me this morning about her pussy," Mrs Hudson said, matter-of-factly. Watson was at her kitchen table, nearly choking down a piece of pie.

"Sorry?"

"Her pussycat." Mrs Hudson repeated. Watson still gave her a side eye as he sipped his tea.

"That wasn't Molly."

"It came from her telephone," Mrs Hudson protested.

"It was Sherlock typing it, mark my words," replied Watson, wiping the crumbs from his face. "She never uses the word 'obvious.' He and Molly must have left town….and this is the reason why." He handed Mrs Hudson the paper. Her face lit up in good humour at the photos and article.

"It's about bloody time," she remarked, slicing a piece for herself. "That boy needs a nice girl in his life. I always liked that nice Miss Hooper, even though she says strange things. She needs to get out of that morgue and have a social life."

"Somehow, I think this might work out," Watson chuckled. "If Mycroft doesn't terrify the living daylights out of him."

"Now, tell me about your lady friend," Mrs Hudson said, nudging John in the elbow. "I heard all about it."

"From whom?"

"From the ceiling," she laughed.

"I knew it, you ARE a dirty old woman."

"I'm still your landlady," she replied, chuckling, primly wiping a drop of mousse from the corner of her mouth.


	9. The River Cam Beckons

"Molly, you look nice. Help me figure out this Instagram thing," Sherlock said, as Molly appeared in the inn's lobby, wearing a very sensible outfit for spring: dark kneelength skirt over tights, black wellies, and a blouse with a complementary cardi in a colour that Sherlock said looked nice with her eyes.

"Instagram?"

"I've downloaded this app, and I don't know how to use it," Sherlock said, talking about Instagram as if it were an ancient cipher. "If we're on holiday, I felt it would be appropriate to document it as modern ordinary people do."

The elderly innkeeper overheard this strange conversation and shook his head, laughing. (Unbeknownst to Molly, the gentleman was one of Sherlock's extensive network.)

"Bollocks," she replied. "You're baiting your brother, aren't you?"

"Ehm. Yes."

Molly rolled her eyes, took Sherlock's phone and helped him set it up. An amateur photographer herself, she often amused herself with various cameraphone apps. It was a nice change from postmortem documenting, to be sure. Her own Instagram was mostly pictures of Toby doing stupid things. She handed the phone back to him.

Her phone pinged. "SherlockVHolmes is now following you!" said the screen triumphantly.

"I've followed you," Sherlock said, stonefaced, as he scrolled through Molly's Instagram feed. "Oh, look. Toby batting at your spider plant. Toby looking like he's reading the paper. Toby eating a green bean. Toby…"

He burst out laughing at the last picture on the roll. It was a selfie of Molly and Toby together on the sofa; she had put the precious glass eyes on Toby's head so the cat appeared to have googly eyes.

"What?" Molly smiled at Sherlock's peals of laughter.

"Nothing, Molly Hooper." His face suddenly fell. "Why haven't you followed me back yet on Instagram?"

"I just got the notice."

"Hurry up! I want a follower."

"Right! Hold on. There," she replied, clicking Sherlock's follow button. "Now we're friends."

"But we were already friends."

"No, I mean we're friends now on Instagram."

"There's a difference?"

"Come on, Sherlock, let's go have our outing before it gets too late."

The pair spent the afternoon and early evening touring the ancient school grounds. Sherlock, in uncharacteristic enthusiasm, took great pleasure in telling Molly the history of some of his favourite spots.

Sherlock took Instagram pictures of various spots, cheesy selfies of himself and Molly in front of various touristy spots around town, Molly pretending she was holding a tree in her hand with some trick photography, Molly jumping off a wall.

The two had a jolly time documenting their adventure.

"Shall we have a punt down river now?" Molly asked, pulling her cardi around her. "Don't worry, I'll teach you."

"I've got a better idea," Sherlock replied. "We'll stop off and take our tea along the bank. I know a nice place downriver a bit."

Molly squealed in delight and the pair picked up some sandwiches and drinks at a nearby shop. They procured a boat and Molly punted them down the river toward the area Sherlock described.

Unfortunately, over the past decade Sherlock's formerly secret spot had become well-known, and it had become overrun with romantics. They kept on, and finally found a secluded bank with some pleasant trees, far away from the chattering crowds.

It was nearly 4:30, and both were starving. Molly tore into her roast beef sandwich hungrily, as Sherlock polished off his own. The country air did them well.

Sherlock's phone pinged new follower notifications every few seconds, signalling that Cambridge would soon be awash with disappointed paparazzi looking for photo ops. No one would find them at their current location, and he had specifically selected an inn with no technology or owners who would recognise him. They'd all expect a famous man to stay in a hotel with more modern comforts, he figured. Morons.

-o0o-

Sherlock had, indeed, used technology to outsmart his brother once more. As the two wayfarers enjoyed their afternoon tea, the town of Cambridge put forth no clues as to where Sherlock Holmes and the mystery woman had gone. The shop clerks at the store where Molly had gotten her clothes were all too eager to make a few extra bob by dishing out the "dirty weekend" story, however. But these two were blissfully unaware of the media frenzy seeking them out at the moment.

-o0o-

Molly lay back in the grass, feeling the warm spring breeze on her face. Sherlock packed up the rest of his meal and put it in the bag, and lay next to her on the ground.

"I see a cat and a wizard," she said, pointing up at the clouds.

"I see cumulus clouds," he replied. "If you see a cat and a wizard up there, you are clearly hallucinating and need mental help, Molly Hooper."

"Those cumulus clouds appear to have the shapes of a cat and a wizard," she clarified, "although the wind is dissipating the wizard into a beheading."

Sherlock laughed. "I hope there's a cloud morgue for that chap. How many people do you think have been looking for photo ops of us?"

Molly smiled mischievously. "How many followers you up to now, Sherlock?" He picked up his phone and held it over him.

"Three hundred twelve," he replied, causing her to gasp. "How do you link that thing to your blog, then?"

"I'll show you when we get back. So, you're baiting Mycroft, are you?" Sherlock nodded.

"There's no internet access at our inn," he replied, checking his watch. Quarter past five.

"Oh, well when we get home, then."

Sherlock smiled at her choice of words, and pointed up at the sky.

"I see a femur," he said, pleased with himself. He got up and brushed stray grass fragments off of himself.

Molly looked over at him and smiled. "Ready for some more river adventure?" she asked.

Sherlock helped her back into the boat and followed suit.

"I want to learn how to punt," he said.

"It would be easier if you sat with me and we did it together," she replied, suddenly conscious of his hips against hers as he obeyed and manoeuvered himself in the boat.

The two found the correct rhythm of rowing and began to head back toward town. Molly waved and greeted people they passed. Finally, they found themselves feeling a bit tired and needing a break. They pulled the punt along the bank and took a breather. Sherlock checked his messages. Two hundred more followers on Instagram in the last half hour. He looked over at Molly, who had been less used to heavy exercise than she wished to admit out loud. Her accelerated breathing sounded loudly in his ears, and stirred something in his heart….and elsewhere. He lingered his gaze upon her until she turned to look at him.

"You ready?" she asked, rubbing her biceps. Sherlock nodded.

The sun set in the sky as the pair continued the row back to Cambridge.

The evening was mild, and the innkeeper greeted them when they walked back inside at half past six.

"You had some visitors," the spritely old man remarked to Sherlock. "I told them I'd seen you heading north earlier in the afternoon. They all ran out like a pack of jackals," he continued.

Molly suddenly realised that Sherlock and the innkeeper knew each other…quite well, it seemed, as Sherlock went over to him and heartily embraced him.

"Thank you," he replied simply, patting his arms in gratitude. "They were rather tiresome, weren't they?" He turned and faced Molly. "Molly, may I introduce to you, Mr. Geoffrey Atkinson. Molly Hooper."

Molly held out her hand for the elderly man to shake, and instead he kissed it like a gentleman. Sherlock explained that he had once gotten Mr. Atkinson off of a murder charge and this was a favour to him. The cash for the room was simply a thank you gift.

"Kitchen's open until 10," Mr Atkinson offered. Sherlock politely declined, knowing their friendship did not extend to Atkinson's lousy cooking. Instead, he mysteriously left, telling Molly on his way out to have a quick nap, and to meet him downstairs in two hours for dinner.

Molly was rather grateful for some time to herself. Although she had enjoyed her afternoon on the river quite thoroughly, her body ached and she needed a rest. Sherlock's energy seemed to have tripled since they docked. She supposed he had some texting to do with his brother, or had to call John or something.

She peeled off her wellies, cleaned them off with a paper towel in the bathroom,, and placed them in the closet.

She set her alarm for 8:00 and drifted into a deep slumber.

-o0o-

-BARK-BARK BARK- sounded her phone. He said to meet her downstairs in a half hour. She went to the closet and put on the royal blue chiffon a-line dress she had picked out during their excursion. It suited her beautifully. She pulled her hair up in the Gibson Girl bun, put on the dress, and bounded down the stairs to meet Sherlock.

His breath hitched as she entered the room. Her eyes met his as her face lit up in a smile. He didn't know how Molly Hooper could look simultaneously casual and elegant at the same time – her usual cardis and chinos did nothing for her figure. But – he felt his palms sweat – she looked radiant.

"Wahey!" she said cheerfully, plopping next to him by the fireplace.

"Miss Hooper," he replied, smiling.

"Well, then, off for dinner and drinkies?"

"Mmm." He nodded, and they left. Molly waved cheerfully to Mr Atkinson. He shook his head in reply.

They dined at a nice French restaurant – not terribly fancy, but excellent. Sherlock kept fidgeting, much to Molly's annoyance.

"Settle down," she chided. "You're making me nervous."

Finally, after their meal, Sherlock took Molly's hand and, without much ceremony, plopped a small velvet box in it. "Here."

Molly looked at him incredulously and turned the box over in her hand. He thrust a note in her other hand and looked at her expectantly.

She opened the box and gasped. Inside was a delicate antique necklace, much like the ones she had admired in London the first day she and Sherlock had gone antiquing. It was gold, adorned with bohemian garnets, that glittered blood red.

The envelope contained something even more extraordinary: a simple, one-sentence note:

_A small gift for being a pleasant companion under disturbing circumstances – love, Sherlock_

Molly suddenly burst into tears. Sherlock, in a panic, quickly threw the payment for dinner on the table and discreetly escorted her outside to protect her from further embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, do you not like it?" He asked her, as they stood outside in the back yard. Molly sniffled in response. "I thought you liked antique jewellery," he added. "Do gifts normally upset you this much?"

"Sherlock, this is the loveliest necklace I've ever seen," she said. "I'm not sad, not really." She walked over toward him as he stroked the tears off of her cheeks.

"What, then, Molly Hooper?"

"Your note. The…the way you signed it," she stammered. "It threw me, is all."

"Oh, that," he replied, glibly. "Didn't you already know I've always loved you? Really, Molly, my feelings toward you are glaringly obvious to any daft idiot on the street, except, say, you. As usual, you see…but you don't observe, Miss Hooper," he said, punctuating each name with a peck on her forehead, their breathing quickening.

He then went on to list all signs of his affection she had clearly ignored, before she wordlessly pulled him toward her to finally shut him up. Their lips met softly, and they lost themselves in each other under the stars. Finally, he freed his lips from hers.

"I hope this wasn't a trick to get more severed limbs for your frostbite experiment," she whispered, linking her fingers in his, as they walked back toward the inn.

"Well? Did it work?" he joked back.


	10. Epilogue

The next morning, John Watson awoke from a deep sleep at Mary's place and picked up his phone. New text from Molly Hooper's telephone, sent sometime last night.

_**Did you get my Ribena? – SH**_

_I'll only tell you if you explain what the hell you're doing in Cambridge with Molly Hooper. – JW_

_**Page 3 of the Daily Mail tomorrow morning. See you soon. – SH**_

"Your bloody friend needs to get up later," mumbled Mary sleepily, as John returned clutching the Daily Mail from Mary's front doorstep.

"I'm not so sure he slept at all," John laughed. A whole spread of Sherlock's Instagram pictures, eyewitness accounts, the looming headline question, "HOLMES EAST ANGLIA LOVE NEST WITH MYSTERY WOMAN?" A cruel account of Molly's frumpiness and Sherlock's lack of social graces from two cows at a clothing store. John frowned in puzzlement.

"Sherlock has Instagram?" John checked his phone to do a quick search. Sure enough, there was a feed of over fifty pictures of those two idiots, appearing to be having one hell of a jolly holiday in ol' Cambridge Town. He laughed especially at the photo of the two sitting next to each other on top of a very old tombstone in a churchyard. They must have asked some clueless tourist to take it for them.

John realised Sherlock was taunting Mycroft, and hoped to god he wasn't using Molly Hooper in their stupid game.

John clicked the "Follow" button on Sherlock's Instagram feed and left a comment on the photo in the churchyard.

_Ahem._

-o0o-

Mrs Hudson sat in Molly Hooper's living room with Toby, trying to interest him in a sparkly cat toy. Toby lazily looked up, batted at it, and went back to sleep, draped over the back of the settee.

"You're a lazy one," Mrs Hudson laughed, hearing the newspaper delivery man drop off the paper. She took it to the table and opened it. There was a full-page spread about Sherlock and Miss Hooper and their romantic holiday in Cambridge. Mrs Hudson smiled, picked up her phone and texted Molly.

_Toby is on his best behaviour. I hope you two are not._

-o0o-

Somewhere in a nondescript old inn in Cambridge, a pair of icy blue eyes opened moments before a warm pair of brown followed suit. The following body parts were intertwined: legs, arms, hair, and at long last, hearts.

The evening had gone exactly as both had wanted, and both were, for the first time in either person's life, blissfully happy. Neither felt particularly like moving, especially after the strenuous physical activities both had endured both during the punt trip and after dinner.

"Have you texted Mycroft yet?" she laughed, stroking Sherlock's hair as he burrowed himself against her chest. "I'm sure we're plastered all over the newspapers by now."

"I've got a better idea." He turned on his phone, put it over their heads, and, scribbled something on two pieces of paper, each holding one in front of their face, showing only their eyes. They snapped a lovely, chaste picture of them in bed together under a down comforter behind the signs. Molly laughed as he put it on the hokiest filter he could find, and hit the send button.

'

The signs Sherlock wrote read, " YOU ARE" and "BORING."

Five minutes later, as they kissed one another tenderly, finally murmuring those "sweet nothings" that had eluded both for so long, Sherlock got a response.

_I suppose this means a new nickname. – MH_

Sherlock did not hear it. For the firs time since getting it, he turned off notifications –instead, focusing entirely on the joys of life he'd long denied himself. Nothing else would matter for the rest of the day. He had exactly what he needed and so did his dearest pathologist.


	11. Author's Note (sorry)

Author's note

Since you have all been so lovely and supportive and numerous, I figured I'd better tell you that this story is indeed continued - under "The Shock of the New." I'd like to write a prequel as well, when I have some time.

Love,

Catherine Pugh xxx


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